Stig Ahlin was back in his room. He had a window, but he kept the black roller blinds down so the room wouldn’t become unbearably hot. He lay down on the bed.
Sophia Weber had asked him to tell her about himself. They did the same thing in the treatment program.
They wanted him to feel remorse. Only then could the therapists, lawyers, caregivers, other prisoners, and guards slot him neatly him into their own well-ordered lives. But he refused. Because they wanted to use his memories. Interpret them in a manner that had already been determined by what they thought they knew. Take control of the part of his life that wasn’t behind bars.
The fact that his dad had collected junk and claimed he used the garage as a workshop, even though he’d never even touched a sheet of 220 sandpaper, much less a saw or a screwdriver — why should a memory like that be important? What could it mean, that he had no siblings? Or that his father had died three weeks before Stig turned eighteen? Meaningless details were magnified by the very act of uttering them. The row house his mother scrubbed on her knees, his father’s TV chair no one else ever sat in, not even after he died. If he told these stories, they would be used to transform him into someone he wasn’t. Sophia Weber would believe he had turned out a particular way because he had lost his virginity to a classmate in a sleeping bag that smelled like sweaty feet and stale beer. Because he used a condom that made his penis itch and because he gave the girl four hickeys so they would have something to show off the next day. She would decide that events like these explained why some things happened and why others never did.
Stig didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t even want to think about it. Because if you spent enough time pondering life, your imagination would take over. You would start seeing connections and explanations. Ones that didn’t truly exist, and yet you couldn’t keep yourself from spotting them, filling in information and adding more color. It hadn’t been a happy childhood. But it certainly hadn’t been unhappy either.
Stig Ahlin looked at his blinds. He typically didn’t open them until nighttime. He could glimpse a piece of sky outside. Next to the window was an air vent. It was fitted with a metal covering, but it wasn’t airtight. On some cold winter days, he could occasionally feel the oxygen forcing its way in. The colder air. One breath later, it was gone. Then he would press his mouth to the opening. It didn’t help.
From his window Stig could see a narrow strip of grass and the inner wall that enclosed the sex crimes isolation unit. But that was as far as his view extended, because that wall was even higher than the one beyond it.
The sex crimes unit at Emla Prison was no moss-covered ruin that afforded scope for boyish dreams about spectacular escapes. The roof wasn’t made of copper and would never turn green with age. There was no wood paneling flaking in the wind, no stone steps turning porous in the salty sea breeze, no rusty, creaky hinges on settling doors. Here the building materials were dead, covered in graffiti, and fireproof. Straight lines, easy to clean and well laid out.
Stig spent as little time as possible dwelling on what had once been. But certain memories lingered in his body. A gentle reminder that life had been different. Good, maybe. Summer memories. A dad tossing his son into the sea, taking him by one wrist and ankle and spinning him around, then letting go, light as a fishing net on the smooth surface. Stig didn’t want to remember. Not the unhappy parts, and even less so the bliss. He tried to stick to the present. And remembering the good threatened to cast him over the edge.
His childhood had been neither difficult nor simple. But thoughts of his upbringing led to the most forbidden thoughts. The ones he must not entertain. What it had been like for his own daughter. Whether anyone had made her laugh, or tossed her into the water in his place.
Stig Ahlin didn’t talk about himself. If he could help it, he didn’t think about himself either. Especially not about his daughter. The thoughts of Ida were the worst ones.
The December air, refrigerator-cold, struck Sophia as she stepped through the door at the prison lobby and into the courtyard where the prison’s transport vehicles arrived.
She walked back the way she’d come and stood at the bus stop. Thirty-two minutes before the bus would arrive to pick her up. For exactly twenty-five minutes she did a Sudoku. Then she made up her mind and called Hans Segerstad.
He answered immediately. He began talking before she could even say hello. He must have been sitting by the phone and waiting for her call.
“I know he’s unpleasant,” he was quick to say. “But it’s not like you have to marry him. Don’t let yourself be frightened off. I guess he’s never been the ingratiating type, and I suspect anyone would end up a little grumpy after spending thirteen years in that place. I hope you’ll allow me to explain something before you —”
Sophia interrupted him. “Don’t worry. I’m calling to tell you why I’ve decided to help with Ahlin’s petition for a new trial.”
Hans laughed. “That sounds good. That sounds really good.”
Sophia pictured Hans in her mind, holding his ancient cell phone in one hand — it was the same model her grandfather insisted on using — and slowly clenching his other hand into a fist, victorious. The phone already smeared with moisture and warmth.
“There are three reasons I want to work on this,” she said. “The first and most important one: it makes me fucking suspicious that all these fuckers are so fucking sure of everything.”
“My, Sophia, that’s a lot of swearing.”
“Why is that? In a case based on circumstantial evidence? Two unanimous courts of law convicted him. Not until they appealed to the Supreme Court did anyone even quake in their well-shined lawyer shoes. One single justice wanted to grant him certiorari. Everyone else was dead certain he was guilty and saw no reason to review the case. The police, the prosecutors, the district court, the court of appeals. Not to mention the all-knowing general public. It’s been fourteen years since Katrin Björk died; people hardly remember who they were married to fourteen years ago, but they remember that this man is guiltier than Judas. And the first reaction is always that this must be because he is guilty. It was my first reaction too. But that was before I started reading the case materials.”
“I see you’ve noticed the discrepancies between the public image of Stig Ahlin and what actually emerged in the criminal investigation.”
“Yes.” Sophia nodded at her phone. “I have. And it’s strange. I’ve certainly seen circumstantial evidence cases before. But one based on shakier grounds would be hard to find.”
Hans chuckled in satisfaction.
“Second, I think it’s too simple. A conscientious, successful doctor with no criminal record beats a little girl to death. I refuse to accept it. Not even his wife — and she accused Stig of doing the greatest evil one can imagine in real life — not even she claimed he was violent. More the opposite. But the fact that he gave her hickeys, that makes him some sort of vampire. I don’t believe Stig Ahlin is the type to suddenly see red, or that everything just went black all of a sudden, or however people usually explain it. I can’t put it together. Not even if he freaked out when he realized how young she was, or because she demanded more from him than he wanted to give. I can’t make it work. That’s my second reason.”
Sophia was totally out of breath; she paused to recover.
“But I’ll only help you on one condition.”
“What’s the third reason?”
“Oh, right. The third reason, okay. Hold on. Hmm. What was I thinking? Oh!” Sophia threw her free hand into the air. “Forget the third reason. That’s why I want to help you. Or, well, him.”
“Thanks.”
Sophia was thrown off balance. Hans, saying thanks?
Hans Segerstad had thanked her. It had been important to him that she accept the case, that she, and not just anyone, should be the one to help. He was admitting as much. She hadn’t expected that.
“You’re welcome. But there are a few things I want you to know. I have one condition. Because God have mercy if you’re wrong. I’m not helping you with this case because you want to change case law about the evaluation of evidence. It’s not a technicality, not for me, and I’ll refuse to take part if you’re planning a trick like that. You have to promise me. I’m far from convinced that he’s innocent. You are sure, and I’ve found enough red flags that I’ll trust you on it. And I’ll continue to help you as long as I do. But if that changes, you’ll have to fly solo again. Because we’re going to do something positive now. I feel like doing something positive. Yeah, there it is! That’s my third reason. I want to do something positive.”
“I do too, Sophia.” Hans Segerstad sounded serious now. “It’s not a familiar feeling, I’ll tell you that. But I feel the same way. And besides, we’ll never be granted a new trial just based on some technicality.”
“If I come to find he’s as guilty as everyone thinks, I’m out. I don’t give a shit if you think it’s ethical or not. I’m out, right away. If that happens, I don’t have time for this anymore. Here comes my bus.”
And I want to get that retrial, Sophia thought as she boarded the bus. That’s my fourth reason. Get an innocent man freed, that was my dream once upon a time. It should still be my dream. That dream never starred a friendly, charming type who already had the world on his side. The dream was never about an easy case.
She took a window seat. It was the same driver she’d had on the way there. At the back of the bus sat a woman with a child in her arms. When the bus turned back toward the main road again, she saw the outermost fence of the facility she’d just left.
She had once had to visit a client’s room in a housing barracks. There had been fighting among the inmates and all the visiting rooms were being used as temporary isolation cells. They couldn’t forbid visits from attorneys, so she had been escorted out of the main building, past the workshops, through the exercise yard, and into the corridor where her client was kept. When she arrived at her client’s room they unlocked the door for her, allowed her to step in, and then closed the door behind her.
The air had been heavy with the sour odors of her client, and the blinds had been down. Her client was on his bed, and there he had to stay or else there wouldn’t be room for them both. It had felt like being locked in a closet with someone she didn’t know.
Sixty-five square feet. One twin bed bolted to the wall. At the foot of the bed was a TV; it too was mounted on the wall. Next to the bed was a narrow desk; above the bed was a bookshelf. All the furniture was bolted down, impossible to budge.
Stig Ahlin didn’t want her to petition for his sentence to be time-limited.
“I’m somewhat safe in here.”
So he’d said.
Sophia rested her forehead against the cool windowpane. She had met many people who were serving life sentences; she’d looked into their eyes, listened to their pleas. Heard them beg her to do something, anything, as long as someone did something, as long as something happened. As long as she broke the tedium.
One time, one of her clients asked her to petition for a new trial in a case of manslaughter he’d never confessed to. When she asked what new facts she could present, he’d said he wanted to confess. He was prepared to do anything, if only she could get him out of the routine life he was forced to follow. If only something would happen.
The bus slowly got up to speed. She was leaving Emla Prison and its surrounding community behind. Fields and managed forests flew past the window.
Stig Ahlin, though, he hadn’t asked her for anything. He’d never asked anyone for help, not even Hans Segerstad. On the day his verdict took effect, he had stopped asking the system for help. Had he adapted? Did he accept what had happened? Could a man who claimed to be innocent still come to terms with a life sentence?
That smothering, restrictive boredom. No one had painted the building, no one had put up wallpaper; there was no budget for renovations and replacements. And the guys he had for company didn’t do being supportive friends or sitting in circles and holding hands. In the kitchen where the prisoners could prepare food, all the knives had been dulled and their handles chained to the work surface. Stig Ahlin should want to get out of there. That should have been his greatest wish. It was inconceivable that he felt safer behind bars.
“I didn’t murder Katrin Björk.”
That was what he said. But he hadn’t asked Sophia to believe him.